Changes
by TV Manic 2
Summary: [1.1] Bonus Chapter(s) for ROOTS (read that one first!). Bruce Wayne has perfected every mask that he wears. The polite smiles and charm of a CEO. The deep grumble and scowl of the Dark Knight. Everything clear and set and defined. But then the Flying Graysons fall... and the cracks begin to show. 1stPOV/Origin Story/Companion Piece - daddy!bats-centric


**Young Justice -:- Changes**

 **Summary:** **[1.1]** Bonus Chapter(s) for Roots. Bruce Wayne has perfected every mask he wears. The polite smiles and charm of a CEO. The deep grumble and scowl of the Dark Knight. Everything clear and set and defined. But then the Flying Graysons fall... and the cracks begin to show.

 **Setting/Spoilers:** Pre-series, same timeline as **Roots** /No spoilers

 **Pairings:** None really, but maybe some implied Bat/Cat?

 **Genre/Rating:** Family/Tragedy/Angst

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned Young Justice, it would probably ultimately be a show about daddy!bats and his trail of orphans following along behind him...

 **Author's Note(s):** Hi people! Sorry it's been a while; motivation and general writing ability has been a bit crappy recently... I know I said I'd write this ages ago (I marked Roots as complete purely because this was taking so long to get out) but this ended up being a bit more involved than I thought; and Bruce's voice is _ridiculously_ hard to find. Hopefully this is worth the wait! Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter One -:- Never Get Involved**

 **This chap (now fic!) is inspired by TheBlondeBullet's suggestion on Roots that maybe I should include something from Bruce's point of view, and that was such a fabulous idea that I just had to give it a go.**

 **So, imagine Jason (or whoever it is that you have pictured as the listener) has been sitting there all day, listening to Dick tell all twenty-eight epic chapters of his story of heartbreak and adventure, and then suddenly thinks** _ **'hang on, Dick has a tendency to embellish his tales a little – I should get another side of the story'**_ **. Which is when he goes up to Bruce and asks: "How did Dick** _ **really**_ **become Robin?"**

 **And Bruce says:**

It was Alfred's idea, encouraging me to go to Haly's Circus that day. Apparently, my responsibilities were slipping; my focus almost solely on the growing turf war between the Penguin and the Black Mask. According to Alfred, people were beginning to believe that I was more of a reclusive billionaire than the playboy persona that I had been adopting.

I was fine with that. Alfred was not.

So, on the 1st April 2006, I was in the cave researching possible targets that the Penguin might hit next, (in retaliation to the Black Mask's attack on the Iceberg Lounge's supplier,) when I received a call from Vicki Vale saying that she would just _love_ to accompany me that evening. Perhaps I would even be willing to give her an exclusive on my tryst with the supermodel that Alfred had informed the gossip columns that I was dating. I smiled and told her that I was looking forward to it and then hung up; sensing Alfred lurking behind me.

"The circus?" I asked derisively, wondering if Alfred understood the concept of what a 'hot date' should be.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "It is difficult to find tickets on such short notice, sir."

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the computer, intent on burying myself in work until the very last minute. Maintaining a cover is important, for obvious reasons, but when compared to the already high body count being stacked up by the two mob bosses arguing over Midtown, I didn't count my date night with a reporter from the _Gotham_ _Gazette_ a high priority.

Which was probably why I was late.

Miss Vale was not in the best mood when we arrived at Haly's, and it didn't exactly brighten any when she saw the red and yellow big top that had been set up on the field next to the train yard. But she pasted on a professional smile as Alfred opened the door of the limo for her; taking my arm to hide the fact that her high heels were incredibly unsuited to walking on the muddy grass.

The questions started as soon as Alfred left us, Miss Vale wanting to know _every_ detail of my imaginary love life, although it was clear that she was really digging for something else. She wasn't a gossip columnist, but she wasn't exactly the respected reporter that she would later become either. She was still looking for her big scoop, and she figured that I was it. Or at least, she was following a hunch that I was hiding something worth reporting, and this date was her way in.

A path had been marked out between the parking lot and the big top, lined with various tents and caravans offering snacks and souvenirs, as well as the typical entertainment of fortune tellers and card sharks. Among the small crowd heading towards the main tent, a handful of kids in bright costumes darted about; pulling off tricks like juggling and cartwheels; clearly distracting their marks as they went about picking pockets. I had to reign in the impulse to stop them or warn the people currently being robbed; reminding myself that Bruce Wayne wouldn't notice, and most likely wouldn't care anyway.

But then a kid juggling six batons brazenly came right up to us, capturing Miss Vale's attention, and I knew what was coming. I was watching the kids in the bright costumes, analysing and assessing which one was going to be the thief and was ready to thwart them. I failed to notice the kid in a pair of ratty jeans and a hoodie, right up until I felt the light touch of a pickpocket.

Admittedly, I overreacted.

It might have had something to do with how close the kid had managed to get before I realised that he was there. I didn't overly care about my wallet; there was only money in it and there was always more of that, but it was the principle. Stealing is wrong.

I grabbed the kid's wrist hard enough to bruise and hoisted him up in the air, my wallet proudly displayed right in my face and pair of bright blue eyes staring at me in shock.

The juggling kid scarpered as Vicki Vale watched me inquisitively, her own surprise fading quickly as she most likely plotted how to tell the city that their philanthropist hated circus folk and totally had an anger management problem. Which I don't.

So I retrieved my wallet and lowered the thief back to ground level, before retaking Miss Vale's arm and continuing onwards.

That thief, was Dick Grayson.

* * *

The show was better than I had expected, having never really been a fan of circuses before. Even Miss Vale seemed to be enjoying herself; the questions ceasing as she watched the various acts. The hard wooden benches weren't exactly designed for comfort though, and I highly doubted that the snacks that were being hawked were fit for human consumption, but I have been told that this is all a part of the 'experience'.

What came next though, definitely wasn't.

The fall of the Flying Graysons is something that I'll never forget. It was just so sudden, everything changing with the snap of a rope. The upbeat music that accompanied the act was still playing, contrasting with the horrified screams of the audience members around us. And then five bodies hit the ground and the big top went quiet with shock. Some people fled, believing that this was an attack by one of the Gotham crazies, but most of them sat, transfixed with morbid curiosity as the blood began to spread.

As the whispers started among the audience – the witnesses comparing their stories as they tried to process what they had just seen – I watched Dick brush past a well-meaning Mr Haly who tried to stop him from seeing. He ran right up to where his family was lying twisted on the ground, and then staggered to a stop and collapsed to his knees. Even from the distance that I was sitting, I could tell just how broken he was; his shock, sadness, horror and pain written into the slump of his shoulders and boneless slouch.

"I had a wonderful time," Miss Vale spouted automatically, dragging my eyes away from the tragedy in the centre ring. The reporter stood, taking a dictaphone from her handbag as she officially ended our 'date'.

"Where are you going?" I asked, though it was fairly obvious. This was her big scoop. She was the first, and most likely only, journalist on the scene, but if she didn't act fast there was the chance that someone else would steal the story. She was trying to make a name for herself, I understood that. But I also knew what it was like to be attacked with questions on top of loss and trauma. It was bad enough that the cops would have to talk to the boy, I couldn't let Vicki Vale get to him as well.

"I've got get down there," Miss Vale replied, pulling out a camera as well. She took a few snaps of the scene, several other flashes from the stands telling me that she wasn't the only one taking photos. "This story's going to put me on the map. I've got to get the details before the cops get here and tape it off."

As she stood, I stood too, blocking her exit. She could have easily stepped up and over the seats if she hadn't have been wearing the killer heels, but as it was she was forced to stop and glare up at me. "You do realise that that kid just lost his whole family, right?"

"It's my job," Miss Vale defended.

My expression must have turned dangerous, because she took a cautious step backwards when I next spoke. "This is a _pay_ _check_ to you, Miss Vale," I said calmly, though the reporter looked a little rattled. "For that kid, this isn't just some story. This is his _life_ , and it just _ended."_

Her face softened, a look close to sympathy morphing her features. Though she didn't say anything, I knew that she had just drawn the parallels between Dick's trauma and my own; the story of Thomas and Martha Wayne well known in Gotham. "If I don't," Miss Vale said carefully, maintaining eye contact. "Someone else _will."_

She had a point.

Sirens wailed above the sound of the unsettled crowd, the arrival of the police and ambulance crews ending our argument as Miss Vale's window of opportunity closed. She huffed in frustration, knowing that other reporters would be on the scene in minutes and that she had just lost her exclusive, but the determination was still there. And then I spotted a familiar face entering the centre ring as the paramedics suddenly burst into activity over one of the bodies.

"Look," I said, drawing her attention back to me. "I have connections. I'll talk to Captain Gordon and get you some of the details, but you have to stay away from the kid. He doesn't need to relive this any more than necessary. Deal?"

Miss Vale studied me for a moment, judging my sincerity, before nodding. "I'm still going to interview everyone else though. You're butler has my number."

* * *

I never meant to get as involved as I did.

It was a rule of mine, a way of minimising the risks of getting too close to something and missing the details that could lead to fatal mistakes. I felt sympathy for the victims, of course. I wouldn't do what I do if I didn't. But it made more sense, it was _smarter,_ to keep things logical. Help, but don't get too deep.

It's a good rule that I still follow, comments about my cold demeanour aside. This was the first time that I broke it.

It started off just as I had said; a simple conversation with Captain Jim Gordon to try and get just enough details to keep Vicki Vale satisfied. But Gordon's a good cop. He wasn't interested in talking about the case, either to Bruce Wayne or Batman. Beyond letting slip that they were potentially looking at the investigation as sabotage and not simply as an accident, Gordon was unwilling to tell me any more.

But he would talk about the boy.

Dick had been placed in a home; a place called Bristol down in the Eastern Quarter, the owner of which was notoriously called 'The Warden'. But it was a good place; better than the streets or juvie hall, at least. CPS was waiting to hear whether or not his uncle would be able to care for him again before placing Dick up for adoption, but Gordon had seen the acrobat. Recovery was unlikely. It was a miracle that he had survived the fall at all.

"They've got no insurance," Gordon informed me, staring into his coffee cup as if he wished that it held all the answers. "Jack Haly's offering the circus as collateral but, well, its not the most stable of investments right now with what happened."

I never meant to get involved. But _financial_ help was something that I could do.

Which was how I ended up at Gotham Memorial the week following the Fall. Gordon had asked me to come once it had been determined that Richard Grayson (the senior) would never survive off of life support.

I had spoken to the former-acrobat's doctors, and confirmed their findings with the specialist that I had had flown in. I did the research and calculated the probabilities of whether or not a normal life could ever be lived. I had all the facts, and as the man paying the bills, I also had the choice. A decision now had to be made.

But who the hell was _I_ to make that choice? I didn't _know_ the man. I didn't know if he followed a religion that influenced his wishes or if he had an unofficial will in place should he be unable to make the decision himself. How was I to know what he would have wanted?

I was _never_ meant to get involved like this.

I was never meant to hold the man's life in my hands.

Some would paint it as noble, what I did next. Personally, I thought that it was cowardice. I didn't want to make the choice – I had no _right_ to – and I knew that there was only one person who did. _One_ _boy_. Maybe if Dick had been older, I wouldn't have felt so guilty passing the buck. But he wasn't. I handed a _child_ a life and death decision. A nine-year-old boy who had just had his world shattered before his eyes. And I told him to _choose._

It was my fault that he grew up too damn fast.

Gordon wanted me to talk to the boy; that was why I was there that day. Ultimately, however, I never made it to the private room. I was distracted by an altercation down in reception.

"The people have a right to know!" some idiot with a camera was shouting, the high reedy voice carrying down to the corridor where an orderly had just managed to smuggle me in through a side entrance. The front of the building was surrounded by various reporters and news crews desperate to get a look in on Gotham's most recent tragedy; the hospital's security was already struggling to contain them – the last thing that they needed was a billionaire showing up in a limo.

I shared a look with the orderly, who half-shrugged and rolled his eyes, clearly having grown used to the media circus in the past week. "Mr Grayson's room is this way, sir."

"Just a moment," I replied, turning and walking in the opposite direction, towards the voice still mouthing off about his amendment rights and the freedom of the press. The orderly hesitated, then followed, probably not wanting to be responsible for losing a local celebrity in the hospital.

I watched, out of sight, as three members of security tried to first talk down, and then began to bodily remove the loud mouth that was causing the scene. Everyone was watching them; the staff, the patients and families gathered in the waiting area – even the press lurking on the other side of the automatic doors were staring with mild amusement as one of their own tried and failed to get the exclusive.

Which was when it became clear to me that the man currently being hauled out was not who he claimed to be. One, no visible credentials. Two, the camera he waved about was less than professional quality. And three, members of the press tended to be sneakier than brazenly walking through the front door.

Everyone was looking at the man that I suspected was being paid to hold their attention. No one was looking at the man who just sauntered right past the front desk and deeper into the hospital.

I followed. I shouldn't have done, I knew. The media presence around the hospital was bad enough as it was, the journalists flocking to report every painful detail of the tragedy at Haly's Circus. Revealing my presence as well would only increase their interest tenfold.

I _shouldn't_ have gotten involved.

But as was fast becoming a recurrent theme for some reason, I did anyway.

The reporter was heading towards the ICU, probably assuming that that was where the fallen acrobat was most likely to be. In reality, the private room was actually in a wing just past Intensive Care, but I couldn't let the reporter get that close. Gordon was bringing Dick Grayson in via the staff parking lot entrance, right next to the ICU. If their paths crossed... if the reporter recognised the boy and jumped at the opportunity... I couldn't let that happen.

"Excuse me," I called, making the reporter jump a mile in the air as he freaked out that he had been caught. But then he saw me, his eyes wide and sly grin slowly forming, not able to believe his luck. I shrugged helplessly as if I honestly believed that he was a member of staff. "I seem to have gotten completely lost..."

Yes, I played the rich idiot card.

As much as I hate it, nine times out of ten, the damn charade works.

"Mr. Wayne? Bruce Wayne?" The reporter exclaimed, sticking his hand in his pocket to retrieve a dictaphone and thrusting it in my face. I staggered back, feigning shock. "What brings you to Gotham Memorial?"

"Um.. ah..." I stammered convincingly. Past experience told me that acting guilty was a sure fire way to distract the press. I didn't even have to say anything and by the time tomorrow's papers printed there would be a full colour spread on my latest scandal, which, as sad as it was to admit, would most likely dwarf the now week-old tragedy of the Flying Graysons.

The questions came thick and fast; accusations and wild speculation filling my awkward silence as I made a show of trying to escape the reporter. Within a minute, an actual member of staff had noticed what was going down, scaring the intrepid reporter off as she threatened to call security. A hundred apologies later, the well-meaning nurse went back to her duties, leaving me alone in the corridor.

Almost alone.

"I told you so," Vicki Vale said as she stepped out of her hiding place, surprisingly without sounding overly smug. "It's our job to follow the story."

I shot her a glare, all pretences of bumbling celebrity dropped. Miss Vale could see through it anyway. "I told you to stay away from the boy."

Miss Vale raised an eyebrow, the only tell she had that told me that she hadn't actually known that Dick was there at the hospital until I had just told her. I cursed myself internally, fearing that I had just thrown the nine-year-old to the wolves, when the reporter surprised me. "I'm not here for the kid," she said, and then at my glare added, "or the uncle."

"Then why are you here?"

"To talk to my source, of course," she smiled at me. "Though I hardly expected to track you down here, of all places. But then again, it's obvious, isn't it? You're paying for the uncle's care, right?"

I made a non-committal noise in the back of my throat.

"Why?"

It was such a simple question, one that I had been asking myself since I had first stepped up against her in the big top. Why _did_ I volunteer to get involved? Why did I feel the need to put myself between the press and a child that I didn't even know? Why did I let myself get so mixed up in a stranger's right to live on life support or die in peace? What happened to that rule?

"I wanted to help," I stated.

It sounded weak to my own ears.

"Does he remind you of you?" Vicki Vale asked, almost tentatively, as if she could sense that this was a dangerous topic but just couldn't help her curiosity. "Did seeing him... did it take you back to the night your parents were killed?"

A _lot_ of things could take me back to that night. The music from the film we saw that night, hearing quotes from it, seeing posters... Once I saw the title come up on the guide on the television, and ended up having to replace the flatscreen as I had destroyed it in a fit of rage that I didn't remember having. Pearls, perfume... _gunshots._ Gunshots were a big one. Even the sight of the weapons brought back the cold dread. Hell, on the bad nights, just the sound of the _rain_ could bring the memories back in vivid technicolor.

The triggers were _everywhere_. I had just trained myself not to react.

But no, seeing the Graysons' fall, witnessing Dick's grief; I hadn't flashed back to my own loss. The similarities between our traumas was not the reason why I was standing in a hospital talking to Vicki Vale.

I didn't _know_ why. And I think that was what concerned me more than anything.

"Talk to me, Bruce," Miss Vale pushed. "You want the press to stay away from the kid, I _get_ that. I'm not a monster. But I've got a boss and I've got deadlines and I've got bills to pay. Give me something else to run with. I can make you the bigger story here; distract the hordes that are massing outside, keep them biting for the bigger fish. But you've got to give me _something_ , Bruce."

She wanted to make this about _me_. I saw the logic. It was the same principle that I had applied to the reporter before – letting him 'interview' me instead of potentially harassing either Richard Grayson. But Vicki Vale wanted to _undermine_ their loss by playing up my part in the fallout, using my empathy with the boy to make the story about my charitable attempts to help. A publicity stunt.

"Bristol," Miss Vale said when I took too long to answer. I glared at her. "Yes, I know where the kid's been placed. I could have walked in and talked to him any time I wanted. But I haven't. I _respected_ your request to leave him alone. Now why don't you show me some respect in return? Trust me on this Bruce. I'll be tactful and respectful... you've read what I've written so far – you _know_ that I've only printed the facts that you gave me. Work together with me on this one, Bruce, and we'll get the Graysons the privacy that they deserve _and_ tell the right story too."

I could see how she would one day become one of Gotham's top reporters.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration, once again wondering how in the hell I got so caught up in the middle of all this. _I was never meant to get involved._

But if it kept Dick out of the spotlight...

I agreed.

* * *

The next day the _Gotham Gazette_ ran the story about my financial assistance with the crippled acrobat's medical expenses. My parents' deaths had been cited as the reason behind my desire to help; a photo of me taken from that night presented next to a shot taken of Dick in the centre ring. It was official. I had stepped all over the boy's loss and made it all about my own.

But to be fair, Vicki Vale had kept her word. Nothing was printed that I hadn't said, and her article was actually a very touching and heartfelt piece; even asking at the end that people please respect the Graysons' privacy at this time. I had to hand it to her, she was a good writer.

And it had worked.

Alfred had been fielding calls all morning from various news papers and shows requesting statements. My publicist for Wayne Tech was thrilled. She had phoned me personally to congratulate me on making a story that wasn't in the gossip pages for once (my playboy persona was the bane of her existence, so I forgave her for her sarcasm.) But one person was exceedingly _not_ happy about it.

" _What the hell did you think you were doing?"_ Captain Gordon demanded loudly before Alfred had even finished handing me the phone.

"The press were practically besieging the place, Captain," I explained. "A reporter made it inside, I figured it was better that they talk to me than tried to talk to the kid."

" _You were...?!"_ Gordon snapped, but cut himself off to take a deep breath as he remembered that it was a pretty powerful man that he was talking to and that he should probably try and be polite. Not that I ever demanded that of him, but he led by example. If he expected his officers to speak to people with respect then he would too. Even if he was mad at them. " _You were at the hospital yesterday? You're telling me that while I was telling Richard Grayson that he was gonna have to choose whether his uncle lived or died, you were chatting it up with some reporter?!"_

I should have known that he wasn't mad about the article. "I'm-"

" _Godammit Wayne,"_ Gordon cut through my apology. His voice grew quieter as the rage faded into something far worse, the sadness and exhaustion transmitting over the line and hitting me like a punch to the gut. _"You were supposed to be there. That poor kid... He had his bag packed, like he believed that his uncle would be taking him home... His face when... Oh lord, Bruce. I think I broke his heart."_

The guilt felt like an anvil pressing on my chest. "I'm so sorry, Jim."

An unsteady sigh sounded over the connection as Gordon fought back control. _"I can't do it again, Bruce. I'll pick him up and bring him to the hospital on Tuesday. You'd better be there to talk to that kid or so help me..."_ he trailed off, and took another deep breath. _"_ Never _do that to me again."_

* * *

I spent 90% of the following week wearing the cowl. Alfred was less than impressed, but it was the distraction that I needed. By the time Tuesday had rolled around I was sure that I was getting a handle on the brewing gang war between the Black Mask and Penguin, and half the lowlifes of Gotham had had the fear of Batman put in them.

I had had some anger issues to work out.

Pictures of my parents and photos taken of me after their murder were plastered across every tabloid in the city, the media's interest in the unsolved case rekindled by Vicki Vale's article. Mentions of the Flying Graysons were few and far between, the tragedy rapidly becoming old news in the wake of fresher gossip. I didn't know what made me more mad – the reminders of the worst day of my life at any given turn, or the cold reality of how quickly people simply forgot.

I shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place. It was a rule for Batman, but it _doubly_ applied to Bruce Wayne as well. The pain and the memories wouldn't have been trudged up and paraded around if I had just stayed indifferent like airhead Bruce Wayne was supposed to. Batman was the one who stood up and helped – Bruce Wayne was just a mask. If I had just remembered that instead of sticking my foot in it, I would have been focused on being Batman and found a different way to help.

I wouldn't have to be at Gotham Memorial telling a kid to choose whether his uncle got to keep breathing or not.

Walking into that room was one of the hardest things that I have ever done. I hesitated at the threshold, my feet feeling impossibly heavy as I listened to Gordon introduce me to the stricken boy. Automatically, I took a seat as Gordon left, getting my first real look at the people whose lives I had gotten so entwined with.

The elder Richard Grayson that lay on the gurney was practically unrecognisable from the pictures and posters that I had seen. Buried in blankets and punctured with tubes, he appeared skeletal and broken. I remember thinking that no one should have to see a loved one reduced to that. One of the things that I have never forgiven myself for was the fact that I had let _Dick_ witness it. I often wonder if that was how he remembered his uncle; if when the nightmares hit, it was that emaciated figure that haunted him.

I pray that it isn't.

Dick studiously ignored me for the first ten minutes that we sat there, his focus entirely on his uncle as the machines keeping him alive endeavoured to break the silence. I watched him, trying to figure out what it was about the boy that had gotten under my skin. I still didn't understand _why?_ What had possessed me to get so involved when all reason told me _not_ to? Why, after all the tragedies that I had seen in my tenure as Batman, had _this_ _boy's_ pain made me sit up and take notice?

The whole situation defied logic. And I _hated_ that.

I figured that I was supposed to say something. Talking to people, beyond pleasantries and falsities, has never come easy to me. But this was a conversation that I had to get _right._ It was me that had dropped this decision on such young shoulders, so it was my responsibility to see it through.

And if it were me making the choice, I would want the facts.

Dick startled when I abruptly stood up, his body tensing up as if ready to defend his uncle at any wrong move. Those blue eyes hooked onto me as I picked up the medical chart, the piercing gaze not once leaving me even when I was back in my seat. I flicked through the notes, feeling the stare still studying me. The scrutiny put me on edge, I have to admit. It felt like I was being read like a book, and knowing Dick like I do now, that's probably not far off the mark.

"You're uncle suffered an acute subdural haematoma," I said, partially to disrupt the stare, but mainly because I figured that it was time to get to the point. Dick blinked at me, not understanding the medical terminology, so I explained in plain English what it meant. His eyes widened as I told him about brain damage and paralysis, at least some of the meaning getting through the language barrier. I kept going.

Gordon had explained that Dick didn't speak but he must have had some basic grasp of the English language – it was clear that the boy was listening when he spoke at least. But as I listed off the various injuries that the senior Richard Grayson had received, it was obvious to me that the junior knew much more than just the 'basics'. He was smart, I was confident about that, and it reassured me that the choice that I had given him – though undeniably huge – was within his range of understanding.

So I started describing the functions of life support, figuring that the more facts he had, the more informed he would be when he made the decision.

But then I looked up and saw his ashen expression, and remembered that I was talking to a nine-year-old boy.

I stopped, silenced by the pain and sadness and doubt in those incredibly blue eyes, old beyond their years, hoping that I hadn't pushed the boy too far. I stood up and put the chart back for something to do, letting Dick think over everything that I had just told him.

The _hiss, click_ of the ventilator and regular beeps from the monitors were the only sounds in the room, almost soothing in their rhythm. I found myself getting lost in my own thoughts, my mind going to work trying to de-construct the confusion that plagued me. Questions without answers circled endlessly, attempting to determine just how I had ended up in that unenviable position. I'm a man of fact, reason, logic. The unsettled feeling in my stomach and dull ache in my chest did not subscribe to those disciplines.

"I lost my parents too, when I was your age."

I don't know where the words came from. I wasn't even thinking of my parents. Words were a tool to be _used,_ they were supposed to serve a _purpose,_ not slip out unfiltered. I usually had more control than that.

And then Dick was looking expectantly at me, those damn blue eyes seeing right through the careful façade.

I was talking again, a vague description of my parents' murder echoing in the near-silent room. The memory played out in my mind's eye like the well-worn recording that it was, the spoken words drawing out the details like I knew they would. It was why I hated talking about that night so much. I saw it clearly enough as it was, the scars never fading. Why would I want to tear them open again and again just so that someone who would never understand could 'analyse' my pain?

I _never_ spoke about it. And yet this boy, without a word on his part, had managed to draw the sorry story from me. It made me _wary_ of him. That odd gift to derive the truth, to see more than was willingly presented, it intrigued me. But it was also dangerous for a man with as many secrets as myself.

"It's your decision, because he is your family," I distracted, perhaps a little harshly. Pain and indecision danced across the haunted eyes, the face of a boy forced to learn the realities of the adult world. The guilt felt heavier on my shoulders as I watched him struggle, doubt gnawing at my conscience. This was too much for the child, I realised. I knew the choice that I would make in his place; the facts dictated the logical option.

Which was when I realised; Dick didn't _need_ the facts like I did.

All people are different. Though I had learned that most actions and behaviours could be predicted and influenced, people are still motivated by different priorities, driven by different emotions. Whereas I was methodical, a child as empathetic as Dick was more likely to be ruled by his heart than his head. His uncle's injuries and the machines meant nothing to him if the man's dreams could still be fulfilled.

I had seen the family on the ropes, before the fall that had ended it all. They were effortless and natural when defying gravity, it was where they _belonged._

Without that...

"He'll never fly again, Richard," I said quietly, drawing those sad eyes back to me. He was looking for the truth behind the words, and when he found it I could see the resolve harden his expression. It was a look that should never darken a child's face.

When he spoke, his voice was rough and croaked from lack of use, the accent thick but his words painfully clear.

"Turn it off."

* * *

Those three words haunted me every quiet moment of the week that followed. Each time that I stopped to take a breath, I would see the broken blue eyes of a shattered little boy.

I was almost grateful for the gang war escalating in Midtown.

Working with the GCPD as Batman I was beginning to get a handle on the politics of the situation. Gang wars are a dangerous thing for a vigilante to get in the middle of: the whole things is a powder keg, and one wrong move can cause the spark. Neutral parties enforcing the law indiscriminately can often cause more harm than good. It was slow-going, but blessedly distracting, which was just what I needed.

Gordon wanted me to attend the switch off.

It was not my place, I tried to tell him. I didn't want to get any deeper into this than I already was. It was getting easier to fend off Vicki Vale and the press as the news became stale, and with the elder Richard Grayson no longer requiring medical care after that Tuesday, I believed that my involvement was coming to an end. It sounds heartless, but I _had_ helped. My part was done. The last thing that the boy needed was another stranger witnessing his grief.

But Gordon was insistent. I was the first person that Dick had spoken to, he said. We had connected. The boy would appreciate my presence. I hadn't 'connected' to anyone since my parents. But images of the despairing child still hit me when my focus slipped. The guilt of pressing the decision onto someone so young ate at the distance that I was trying to create. Perhaps it was better to not to let the boy suffer this injustice alone.

Solitude doesn't work for everyone.

And so I walked into the private room at Gotham Memorial one last time, taking the seat beside Dick as his goodbyes came to end. He sat there, pale and still, as if he were in shock; his hands wrapped around his uncle's wrist and tears crystallising on his cheeks.

Not a word was spoken as the process began, the doctor silently turning off the machines and cutting the steady soundtrack of the ventilator and monitors. At some point I had lain a hand on the boys arm; two parts restraint, one part comfort, but Dick's eyes remained fixed on every move that the doctor made. I felt his barely contained shudders beneath my fingers, heard the quavering of shortened breaths. The strength it must have taken to hold back the tide of emotions...

It only took a few minutes for Richard Grayson to slip away. I don't believe in souls or the afterlife, per se, but the atmosphere in the small room changed as he passed, as if some presence had left as his heart had ceased.

The sob that tore from Dick's throat was like a knife to the heart. It was the breaking of the dam; every ounce of pain and sorrow and grief exploding out of him with a force that must have hurt. I patted his arm, unable to really comprehend what else I could do to help – knowing that no physical gesture would ever make that pain go away.

And then he turned and buried his face into my sleeve, grabbing the fabric of my suit jacket in a white-knuckled grip. I jumped and looked to Gordon who hovered nearby, but the police captain was stifling his own reaction. I felt awkward, trying to reassure the boy with meaningless comforts as he mourned the loss of his entire family. Nothing could make him feel better. But I felt the need to _try._

Gently, tentatively, I lifted the boy from his seat and settled him on my lap, cradling him against the shoulder that was already soaked through with his tears. I remember how he felt so small in my arms, this tiny fragile thing that I had allowed to be fractured into shards.

I held him for a long time, afraid to let go.

* * *

 **So this is part one of two or maybe three chapters as this little bonus chapter thing ended up getting a wee bit out of hand... This only brings us up to Chapter 10 of Roots btw, so lots more story to cover :)**

 **Bruce. Bruce is a weird one to write, especially in first person. I am aware that he wouldn't really give this much away and admit to quite so much out loud, but I'm hoping that maybe I've captured some of that internalised deepness? Who knows, I just wanted to explain his perspective and start to get to the why/how he gradually changed enough to adopt his first Robin – comments/criticism welcome!**

 **And** _ **Loyalty**_ **... Loyalty has stalled epically. I said October, it's barely still November... I haven't even finished chapter** _ **one.**_ **.. yeah. Sorry about that – it is most definitely on my hit list, but I'm not making any posting promises just yet! Apologies!**


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